


Sink Low, Rise High

by saisei



Series: Faith [1]
Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: M/M, One-Sided Attraction, Pining, Unrequited Love, this is not the happy ending you are looking for
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-30
Updated: 2017-09-12
Packaged: 2018-12-09 01:58:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 9,779
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11659230
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/saisei/pseuds/saisei
Summary: Ignis fell hard for Prompto; fortunately, Prompto didn't notice.





	1. Crushed

**Author's Note:**

> > Let the camera do its dirty work down there in the dark  
> Sink low, rise high  
> Bring back some blurry pictures to remember all your darker moments by  
> (Birth of Serpents - The Mountain Goats)
> 
> For the prompt https://ffxv-kinkmeme.dreamwidth.org/3892.html?thread=5574452#cmt5574452: "Prompto is generous and free with his emotions and always puts so much effort into making other people happy. Ignis knows Prompto does it to everyone, and not to take it personally, but it's no use. He falls for Prompto, hard. + Noct and/or Gladio catch on, but Prompto never does, and Ignis never tells him." 

"Man, that was _awesome_ ," Prompto said, and punched Ignis in the shoulder. Not hard enough to hurt at all, and he followed up by slipping that arm around Ignis' waist and leaning into him. "D'you think you could teach me how to make that? Cause I got to say, if there's one thing I love more than anything, it's a good curry."

"I shouldn't think that would present a problem," Ignis said. Prompto smelled sun-warmed and Ignis had to hold himself back from leaning into the touch. He could _feel_ the ridiculous crush he had on Prompto thriving on the physical contact, as if any attraction were or could ever be mutual. As if he was not simply an incredible _idiot_. 

Ten minutes later, he watched Prompto slap Noctis on the arse, instigating some kind of fake wrestling that Gladio broke up with laughter and gruff threats.

"I know where you're ticklish, dude," Prompto said idly from where he lay sprawled on the grass, arms thrown wide, shirt riding up to show his stomach. He was breathless and grinning, and Ignis ached.

His life would be so much easier, he thought with a frisson of anger, if this were just simple lust. Were Ignis to compile a list of physical properties he found attractive, Prompto would tick off, oh, at least half of the boxes. His body's perpetual loose motion and casual athleticism, the way the light caught his hair, his freckles, his arms – he _must_ know that the combination of sleeveless shirts and gloves made a devastating display, correct? – his toned runner's legs. His smiles, all of them – Ignis, whose self-conscious hiding of his rabbity front teeth began when he was teased as a child, envied the easy way Prompto smiled for nearly every occasion: glee, pleasure, genuine happiness, ferocity, sleepiness, and so on and on.

But Ignis grew up surrounded by attractive, fit people – the Crownsguard and the Kingsglaive, in particular, he credited with his sexual awakening. He'd become quite adept, over the years, at channeling attraction (and the potential mortification of arousal) into dispassionate aesthetic appreciation. Without that skill, he'd never have been able to survive – for example – the double onslaught of Gladio's form-fitting leather trousers and bared chest. Lust was something he had familiar techniques and strategies to deal with.

What had him utterly undone and drowning now was the intensity and focus of Prompto's attention. As far as Ignis could tell, Prompto's concern, interest, and care were genuine and heart-felt. When he said a meal was delicious, he meant it. When he said Ignis looked tired and offered to take over driving, he was sincere, and when Ignis demurred Prompto would make Gladio hand over a can of Ebony, or find upbeat music on the radio, or start some passionate yet utterly ridiculous argument. Was it possible to swim in pudding? – who cared? But Ignis was kept alert and entertained until they reached their destination, and Prompto didn't ever seem to feel he'd done anything _special_.

These were little things, but as the saying went, even dust could make a mountain. And Ignis supposed the degree to which he was affected by Prompto's friendliness was simply a sorry commentary on his own lack of experience with unconditional affection. He _liked_ having his value be conditional and contingent on how well he carried out his duties and responsibilities; on his ability to strategize and prepare. He enjoyed the security that came from knowing that no one else could come close to doing what he did. His intelligence meant he didn't fail, and he _reveled_ in his competence. But now that potential failure could mean Noctis' death, Niflheim's victory, and the end of the the world, he found himself unexpectedly shaken when a weird rock formation was enough for Prompto to grab him and snap a selfie of the two of them, Prompto squinty-eyed and grinning, thrilled just to share the moment with a friend.

Prompto, of course, didn't know that Ignis didn't want to be simply his _friend_ , and Ignis kept letting his frustration about that slip when he was tired or stressed or scared. He hated himself for it; after all, he managed to conceal the triggering emotions fairly well, which made what came out of his mouth not only unpleasant but also unexpected.

Just a few days later, after a disastrous fight, he cut off Prompto's verbal replay of Ignis quote-unquote _freaking out_ with a sharp, "Yes, well, _you're_ expendable." A sparkshear had nearly snipped off Noctis' arm, and Ignis was still shaking; he failed to see how a reasonable degree of panic over the safety of the only non-expendable member of their party was unwarranted, much less funny.

"Whoa," Noct said, eyes cutting to Ignis in surprise and a disappointment that stung fiercely. "Harsh much?"

Prompto didn't say anything, then or the next day, and the silence pointedly directed at Ignis felt ominous, like a stormhead building on the horizon. One makes one's bed, Ignis told himself, and that is where one sleeps, whether one likes it or lumps it. He needed to apologize, but he also had a hundred other things that needed immediate attention and were far more crucial to their survival and success, and which would be far less painfully embarrassing. 

Which was how he missed his chance to rectify the situation and didn't notice until Gladio and Noct disappeared to go check out the local fishing spot. Ignis had the collapsible table covered with maps and his notes, trying to plan their journey as many steps ahead as he could while also preparing for contingencies, when Prompto appeared at his side and said,

"Let's clear the air."

Prompto was many things, but Ignis had never seen him quite so menacing before; or at least, he'd never seen this level of anger turned on one of their party.

"I get that you don't like me," Prompto went on. "I'm an imposition and a weakness and a cog in your machinery – " he gestured sharply at the papers covering the table – "that doesn't turn the way it's supposed to. We all know you were born perfect, and it's obvious I wasn't." He shrugged, in a way that looked more like he was trying to jerk the tension in his shoulders loose. "None of that gives you the right to treat me like you do."

"I do like you," Ignis found himself protesting – and once again failing to apologize, whatever was wrong with him? "I am in no ways perfect – I'm _prepared_ , or at any rate I try to be. There's still far too much that's out of my control." He took a breath. "It terrifies me. Half a year ago I worried whether I was briefing Noctis well enough for meetings, and now I have to keep him alive."

Prompto crossed his arms. "So you're saying, yeah dude, you _are_ in the way."

"I'm saying I know _how_ to perform a field amputation, but I'd really rather _not_. Not on my King, not on my oldest friend."

"Gross," Prompto said, wrinkling his nose.

"I very much enjoy your company, and I am sorry I hurt you through my words and actions. I – while I realize the phrase is cliché, the problem really does lie with me and my worries, and not you."

Prompto tipped his head back to look up at the sky.

"I've known Noctis and Gladio since I was a child. I forget, sometimes, that you and I don't share the same depth of intimacy."

"That sounds really dirty," Prompto said. "Just F.Y.I. You mean we're not friends."

That stung. "I hope we are friends," Ignis said after a moment. "Simply not as close – yet – as you and Noctis are, or Gladio and myself."

"I kind of feel like friends don't call friends expendable." Ignis frowned and opened his mouth to try and explain his remorse more clearly, but Prompto flashed him a _gotcha_ grin. Ah. Teasing. "If you're gonna dish it out, you better be prepared to take it."

" _Serves_ me right, I suppose," Ignis murmured. Prompto held out his fist, and he knocked his own against it, feeling lightened with relief and fondness.

Later, while he was cleaning up after dinner, he overheard Noct say offhand, "So – air cleared?"

"We're cool," Prompto said. "He _likes_ me."

"Well, yeah," Noct agreed, flipping lazily through pictures on Prompto's camera. "What's not to like?"

Gladio was also listening in, and he raised his eyes from his current novel to stare at Ignis hard. While everything Ignis knew about the Astrals suggested that no one in their right mind would want them to answer their prayers – the Six's blessings were more like curses – he _wished_ there was merciful divine intercession. He'd offer half his salary to the temple, and in return he wouldn't get interrogated by Gladio.

Such a small thing to ask.

But instead the next morning he stumbled out of the tent in the pre-dawn gloom, intent on grabbing his first coffee of the day from the Regalia, only to find Gladio leaning against the hood, teaching himself to juggle with Ebony cans.

"Give," Ignis said, holding his hand out.

Gladio shrugged, and one can spun out of its orbit. Only well-honed reflexes kept Ignis from catching it with his face, and he glared as he flipped the can around. There were a few dents in the metal, and he hoped Gladio hadn't banged up the Regalia, as well. Cindy would have his head.

"I hear you and the kid kissed and made up," Gladio said, still keeping the other cans airborne. "Good one, Iggy." This was said with the same intonation he used when Noct had done something particularly stupid.

Ignis popped the tab and took an eye-opening sip. "Not all of us have your talent with people," he pointed out, determined to stay vague until Gladio spoke plainly.

"I see how you look at him," Gladio went on. Ignis' horror must have shown on his face before he could school his expression; Gladio grimaced, and let the cans drop into his broad hands before chucking them onto the back seat. "Any other time and any other guy, I'd cheer you on, you know that."

"I promise you," Ignis said, feeling the sum of all the humiliations of his lifetime, doubled, "I have no intention of acting on my feelings. I won't let another incident like this one happen."

Gladio hooked his thumbs into his pockets and fixed Ignis with a sympathetic look. "Your mouth's going to keep getting you in trouble like it always has, 'cause you've got a snippy temper. But you need to shut this thing for Prompto down, least until the mission's finished."

Ignis, as a rule, did not want things for himself. The majority of his indulgences related to skills and knowledge that he could justify as being at least tangentially work-related; the remainder were, most likely, vanities. His aunt had raised him with her Tenebraean eye for fashion, and he had high standards and expensive taste. But it wasn't anyone's business but his own if he had owned twenty pairs of made-to-order shoes back in Insomnia.

He would not stand for having this... crush – this crushing infatuation – become everyone's business. Gladio was doing him a kindness, to speak to him like this. There were things he must not want – could simply not afford to.

"Yes," he said. "Of course." He had to add, though it pained him, "Please do me the courtesy of letting me know if I err."

"What you need is to wear yourself out. You spend too much time in your head." Gladio grinned. "Let's see how much you've let yourself go since leaving the city."

On the one hand, Ignis had things that needed doing before everyone was awake. But on the other, there were certain insults Ignis _couldn't let go_ , so he finished his drink, undid his shirt and trousers, folding them in a neat pile on the backseat, and caught the shorts and t-shirt Gladio lobbed at him.

Gladio rolled out one of their foam mats on the grass and put Ignis through a stretching routine worse than anything Matis came up with back at the Citadel. The pain was mostly bearable because Gladio couldn't keep up himself, though he tried. They needed to do this more, Ignis decided, flush with smug superiority, and when Gladio announced he wanted to practice kicks, that seemed like an excellent idea.

So Noctis, when he crawled out of the tent, found them sweaty, slightly bloody, and breathing hard.

"Morning," Gladio called, flashing a toothy grin at Noct's sleepily perplexed squint. "Hey, watch this." He launched Ignis up (with no warning at all, much appreciated) into the combo they were working on, and when they were both back on the ground draped his hot, dripping arm around Ignis' shoulders like a proud parent. He was very lucky they were practicing without weapons. "Cool, right?"

Noct gave Ignis one of his _looks_ , as if he'd noticed something wasn't normal and was trying to figure out whether he cared enough to figure out what and why. He bent to pick up Ignis' glasses from where they'd landed (again, _thanks, Gladio_ ) and handed them over.

"I'll make breakfast," he said on a sigh. "You go hit the creek. I'm not sitting next to Gladio's sweat all day."

"I smell like sylleblossoms and sunlight," Gladio told him.

Noctis made a disgusted face and called into the tent, telling Prompto to stop playing games and help him figure out how to make toast.

And that was that.

Prompto went back to being chipper, with far more confidence now that he knew Ignis considered them friends. His passenger-seat antics grew more animated, and they developed running jokes and friendly rivalries. Prompto asked for advice on how to fix his cowlicks, and Ignis shared flat-iron tips.

It was, in short, everything he could have asked for from a relationship, minus physical intimacy (and plus occasional disapproving stares from Gladio, who frankly didn't have a leg to stand on after his dereliction of duty at Cape Caem). Ignis maintained strict habits of friendship: how close to stand, how much to touch, how long to look. He didn't think he needed to worry as much as Gladio thought.

After all, he'd as good as confessed the entirety of his feelings during that painful clearing of the air, and Prompto hadn't even noticed.


	2. Blind

Ignis woke up after the battle with Leviathan blind and scarred. He told himself he was glad it had happened to him and not to any of the others. Noctis didn't need any more pain, not after losing his father and Luna, and he had his destiny to fulfill. Gladio would have hated himself for being unable to serve as Shield; Prompto would have lost his photography – the joy he took in scenic vistas and good lighting – and his utility. Ignis... could bear this.

He repeated this to himself like a mantra throughout the ever-shortening days. Gladio stayed glued to Noctis' side even after he awoke, so Ignis drafted Prompto to be his... companion. ( _Nurse_ or _minder_ might have been a more suitable title, but far less bearable.) Despite the persistent blinding headache (ha), he made Prompto take him to buy a stick so they could go on walks, and dark glasses because the light he _could_ see felt like an icepick to his brain. He needed to regain independence, although for now he didn't protest the nervous hand Prompto kept on his hip to guide him. He practiced stairs and learned to tell various pavements by the way they felt under his boot soles. He fell more often than a toddler, and probably with less grace. Simply dressing himself properly or eating a meal proved a challenge.

 _Better me than him_ , he told himself. In the absence of vision, he relied on Prompto's optimism and cheer with near desperation.

"You're gonna drive yourself crazy," Gladio said one night, escorting Ignis to the second room in the suite after Prompto and Noctis fell asleep sprawled across the big bed. "Didn't I tell you – "

"I have been trying," Ignis said stiffly. He bumped his already-bruised hip into one of the pointless antique side tables, and Gladio tugged him back on course with an apology and a curse. "It's not easy."

"You could have anyone," Gladio said. "If you wanted."

"Your hyperbole ought to be in the past tense," Ignis said, not able to hold the anger back. "Could _have had_ anyone." He'd asked what his face looked like now. Prompto, who could natter on for ages describing sunlight moving across the ocean or a redhead who'd caught his eye, had replied very quickly, _It's not that bad_. Ignis' fingers worked just fine; he was well aware of the extent of the damage. He'd simply wanted to know if people would be crossing the street to avoid looking at him now, and Prompto had inadvertently given him the answer.

He was still strong, if no longer attractive. Gladio made sure he kept up with his training, especially stretching out the burns to his left shoulder, which had tightened when they were healed. Ignis refused to be left with one arm weaker than another; he hoped to force his body into compilation by the time they left Altissia. He also needed to figure out how to use weapons at the same time as the walking stick, and how to assess the movements and weaknesses of an enemy – or enemies – he could not see. The prospect of entering a battle was daunting, but he refused to be intimidated.

Noctis' withdrawal was, in his opinion, a far more serious problem. Gladio was angry – unreasonably so, but try getting Gladio to see reason. Prompto tried to help Ignis and Noctis both, and that made Gladio even more frustrated, because to him admitting a need for help was as good as quitting. And Ignis kept hearing in his own voice, as he tried to hold things together, echoes of his aunt and uncle, after his parents were killed: an empty sort of forced cheer and dazed resolve that didn't fool anyone.

He himself hadn't been particularly sad, as he had few memories of living with his mother and father before they sent him to safety in the Crown City. Only years later did he fully understand that his uncle and aunt had lost their families, their friends, and the city they'd grown up in, and had been mourning even as they pasted on smiles for his sake. He'd always imagined Lady Lunafreya was to Noct what his aunt was to him: not exactly a mother, but a loving and kind substitute in his affections. Which was why Gladio, to whom Luna was a stranger, was so horribly wrong in his assumption that she wasn't close enough to Noct for him to feel this depth of grief.

Gladio called it selfishness. Which it certainly was, but demanding Noct wear the ring – even after witnessing how it had consumed Regis – was _also_ selfish. And the more Gladio pushed, the more Noct pulled away, and the more Ignis stayed silent, exhausted even just thinking about starting the same arguments all over again.

"Hey," Gladio said, and his fingers tightened on Ignis' arm. "I bitch a lot, but you know, I respect that you never give up. Especially when you're pushing yourself to do the impossible. I just – fuck, it kills me to see you get hurt."

 _Too late for that_ , Ignis nearly said, but that would be uncharitable and unfair. "We were chosen because of our willingness to die for Lucis and our King," he pointed out, as gently as he could. "And it seems likely we will. In one sense, I suppose I'm lucky – I won't see it coming."

Gladio didn't find that funny, but then again, the one who usually appreciated morbid humor was Noct. Someday, Ignis hoped, they'd be able to sit around a campfire together like friends again, and tell stupid jokes, and... well, maybe not eat good food for a while. Cooking was far down his list of skills to recover.

Leaving Altissia, Ignis discovered that the sway of the cars and the noise of the wheels on the tracks made him nauseated and disoriented, respectively. He hid both as well as he could – his body might be failing in new ways daily, but he meant to cling to as much dignity as he could retain. To have a fight, there in the train in front of horrified children and their murmuring parents, helped not at all. Ignis at least did his friends the courtesy of yelling at them in the privacy of an abandoned mine; his heart was in his throat, the pernicious primal fear of being left behind, down there in the fetid water, or on the platform, or at any street corner... He wondered whether Noctis had ever seen him truly afraid before, and whether he thought less of him for it now.

Ignis was furious with Gladio all over again when Prompto was lost; so utterly, unreasonably enraged that he had to force his breathing steady and make a mental image of shoving his feelings in a box and then piling rocks on the lid to keep it shut. _Stopping the train would be fatal_ , Ignis had advised Noct, his voice forced and false. _They would have to rescue Prompto later._ But a traitor part of him thought, _This, this is what Gladio wanted_ , even though he knew he was being unfair. Another rock. _No Prompto to distract me. No one to keep reaching out even when they get shoved away._ More rocks. _Nothing but darkness and silence._ That deserved a boulder, for being disgustingly full of self-pity, as well as wrong.

The air was a cacophony of demonic screams, the rending of metal under claws, and passengers screaming. He and Gladio were busy fighting off a tide of daemons; Ignis found if he positioned himself in a doorframe, he could fight nearly as well as before – like one of Noctis' tedious video games, all he needed to do was mow down anything that came at him. He was tiring, and apprehensive that Noct hadn't arrived yet, when Gladio shouted that the Hydrean had been summoned and was unleashing aerial waterspouts and torrential storms. Every window exploded inward; water was everywhere, drenching him from head to toe. The water felt cleansing and pure, warm on his skin, and for a moment he felt light – 

and in the next he remembered the taste of this same water on the pavement of Altissia, mixed with his blood, and the fear and anger _then_ somehow amplified the same feelings _now_.

The vision was gone in a moment, but the shock of it made the world recede, and he very nearly gutted Gladio because he hadn't heard him approaching – had mistaken him for a daemon, or for...

Gladio disarmed him neatly and shoved him up against the wall, leaning into him so he couldn't struggle even if he'd wanted to.

"It's just me," Gladio said. "Come on. Noct's nearly here, and you don't want him seeing you like this."

Ignis took as deep a breath as he could. "My apologies," he rasped out. His throat hurt, for some reason.

"Not necessary." Gladio stepped back, but kept his arm around Ignis' shoulders like an anchor. "We cool?"

Ignis dropped his mental box into the black ocean. Leviathan could have it, for all he cared. "Yes." He heard someone running towards them from the next car. "Noct?"

"The one and only." Gladio heaved out a sigh like he was trying to force frustration from his body. "We're gonna go after the kid, you know that, right?" 

"Damn straight," Noct said. "There a reason you guys are... hugging?"

"I'm a huggy guy," Gladio said. His arm snapped out and he hauled Noct in as well. It was, in its own way, somehow comforting, to be pressed close between two bodies, invisible but warm – in the darkness, real.


	3. Brought Low

"I don't know if what I remember was real," Prompto said. They'd taken him from that torture chamber in the cellblock to one of the abandoned dormitory rooms. Gladio had burned off some of his rage barricading the door; they were safe for a few hours, perhaps. Prompto's physical injuries had been examined and tended, but he was far too closed off for Ignis' liking. "Some of it or... all of it. Parts are true, I know that, but Ardyn..." His voice trailed off. "Ardyn."

"He insinuates his way into your thoughts," Ignis offered. "I gained intimate acquaintance with that pernicious talent."

"Anything you want to share with the class?" Gladio asked, voice rough with annoyance. He was pacing, like a caged animal; Ignis felt weary from trying to keep Gladio focused ever since they'd been separated from Noct, to focus that raw wild rage.

"Not especially." Refusing to disclose what Ardyn had done to him was a personal victory, as far as Ignis was concerned. He had no doubt that he was supposed to have gone crying to Noct with his story, but he was no one's puppet and his past was his own. He'd _begged_ , in the end, and his stomach knotted thinking that Ardyn had had Prompto for days. Plenty of time to harm his mind, even if his body was unbroken.

Gladio must have looked furious, because Prompto started talking like he was trying to placate him, words falling out in a disjointed mess that still painted a picture hard to reconcile with how he'd been found, chained hand and ankle to a rack. He said he'd seen Aranea (easy enough to confirm, assuming she yet lived) and Pryna (who was dead), and had been led on a chase by Ardyn through one of the empire's daemon-manufacturing factories. There were obvious chunks of the story that he was holding back, but Ignis would be a hypocrite to complain.

"There were all these guns and things, I was a total badass," Prompto said, sounding bitter. "So maybe that proves it wasn't real. And there were machines everywhere selling Ebony – like a dream vacation for Iggy, huh, except for the daemons and the," he swallowed, "the MTs."

"I've never been on holiday," Ignis mused, deliberately obtuse, as if he hadn't registered the hysterical edge to Prompto's voice. "I certainly hope I can afford better than a Niflheim research facility – perhaps the seaside. Someplace with excellent food."

"And real beds," Prompto agreed wistfully. The mattresses in the dorm were hard and unyielding. Prompto had refused to try and nap, despite his manic exhaustion. Ignis didn't blame him. 

"Hey Iggy," Gladio said, and grabbed Ignis by the wrist. "I wanna show you something."

He tugged Ignis around the corner to the desk where their meager supplies were laid out. Ignis didn't want to leave Prompto; he imagined him hunched over where he sat, arms wrapped around himself, small, skin marred by terrible bruises – though not, Gladio had said, all _that_ bad considering he got pushed off a train.

Gladio leaned forward, subtle as a behemoth. "Actually, I just wanted to give the kids a moment," he murmured in Ignis' ear. And Gladio's instincts were good, like always. They could hear Noct moving, with sudden decisiveness, and then the low murmur: _Hey, I'm sorry._

"For what?" Prompto said, sounding honestly confused – _of course_ he didn't blame Noctis, that was so typical of him.

Gladio slapped Ignis on the shoulder like a proud father. "Apologizing _and_ wearing the ring?" he said, still keeping his voice low so it didn't carry. "Don't want to jinx us, but I figured we were fucked when we lost the Regalia and Noct. Now maybe we got a chance."

Ignis thought a better sign was that Noctis was talking again (he felt bad for eavesdropping, but Noct would forgive them for not stepping outside, he was sure). More than that, he was expressing his feelings and his hopes for the future, as if saving Prompto had released him from a grieving emotional stasis. Perhaps Ignis was to blame, he thought now; he had, after all, not reassured Noct that his blindness – what had happened to him – hadn't been Noctis' fault. He'd assumed that was understood. But Noctis had perhaps not known that he didn't need to – indeed, could not – fix anything or everything... that simply speaking to Ignis the way they always had would have been balm enough.

It was just unfortunate fact that Ignis was the one who usually explained these things, and he'd been temporarily unable; he took a certain measure of pride now that Noct had taken the initiative to speak to Prompto all on his own, prodding and no script.

He would have to remember to tell Noct he nursed no ill feeling for what had happened in Altissia. Noctis had performed his role admirably, in the face of great adversity.

Later. So he had time to choose the right words. Later, not now, because they were in the heart of the wrongness unleashed on the world, and the mission, above all else, came first.

Ardyn did not allow him a _later_. The crystal had been a trap, and Noct was gone, and even though Gladio and Prompto had killed Ardyn, Ignis still heard his body drag itself slowly to stand on the catwalk, each shambling step echoing. Ardyn was within arms' reach, Ignis guessed, but he was paralyzed with doubt. He could probably sever Ardyn's head from his body, but Ardyn was deathless and he was not. But how could he stand by and let the man – daemon – walk free?

He heard Ardyn's feet drag, and then he _saw_ Gentiana, shimmering like a reflection caught on glass. He blinked reflexively, and she turned her head very slightly, looking from Ardyn to him – even though her eyes were closed, as was her preference. She smiled and raised her hand palm up, as if asking him for... trust, or faith; to know that she would be here and Noct would not be alone. In her presence he felt his fears unknot.

She walked toward the crystal, and Ignis felt cold air curl around his feet, sliding up inside his trousers. A moment later, she was gone, and he found himself shivering, chilled to the bone.

"Iggy," Gladio was saying, as if he'd been calling his name for a while.

"He okay?" Prompto sounded worried, which was all wrong. Prompto was the one just rescued and still hurt. Ignis was meant to worry _for him_.

Gladio's hand came down heavy on his shoulder and rubbed, as if he was trying to warm Ignis up. "He gets flashbacks. Ardyn, probably."

"I'm fine," Ignis had to protest, because that simply wasn't true. This feeling of near-tranquility had nothing to do with... that.

"Awesome." Prompto tucked himself in on Ignis' other side, pulling Ignis' arm across his shoulders and wrapping his own around Ignis' waist, as if bracing himself to carry half his weight. "Cause you look – " He cut himself off.

Ignis needed to reassure him, even though he suspected he'd sound like he'd lost his mind. "Gentiana was here – _is_ here. Keeping watch." He heard Gladio's breath catch, and aimed his gaze in that direction. "I very much doubt the crystal will release Noctis soon – " in his lifetime, he hoped, surely the Six wouldn't let the world suffer that long – "and we need to leave. Make sure a world remains for him to return to."

Gladio breathed out in harsh frustration. "Don't you sound like a prophet." His hand on Ignis' shoulder tightened, almost as if he was about to shake him, and then Gladio let go and took a step back and away. "I trust you," he said, words slow and measured. "Please don't be crazy."

"I trust you even if you're bonkers," Prompto countered with stubborn (and beautiful) loyalty. "You saw his face melt, dude." Gladio grunted. "Betcha Gentiana did that. And now we know Ardyn's ten tons of daemons stuffed into bad dress sense, I'd be pretty happy with an ocean between us." He bumped Ignis with his hip, as if trying to get him to agree. "You guys see any airships around here? Because if there's one thing my junk genes are good for, it's the Magiteck touch."

 _You really have no idea how much I love you_ was on the very tip of Ignis' tongue, coupled to the desire to fold Prompto in his arms until every horrible self-hating thought from Ardyn was uprooted. But he swallowed both impulses down and said instead, "If you would, then, take us home."

"Or the next best thing." Prompto sounded wry and sad, twisting a little as if stealing one last fortifying look at the crystal.

Ignis looked as well, hoping to catch another glimpse of Gentiana, but his vision was as ever the same slurry of darkness laced with needles of light. He took a fortifying breath, and let Prompto lead him away. He knew it was indulging his weakness, but he didn't want to walk alone.


	4. Sunrise

In the perpetual night, Ignis found it distressingly easy to fall into a life without Noct, and then a life without Gladio and Prompto. He supposed that was natural. Like magnets, they were all aligned toward Noct, but that similarity repelled them from each other. Gladio worked with Iris and the Lestallum hunters, protecting the survivors and raising Talcott like his own son. Everyone knew who he was by name, and respected him. Prompto could generally be found in Hammerhead, though whenever anyone found a cache of weapons or a vehicle to be salvaged he tended to turn up. Over the years, he learned nearly everything Cid, Cor, and Cindy could teach him, and he joked about how he needed to change his name to something starting with "C", for continuity.

Ignis spent most of the first two years in Niflheim. Aranea had asked him to go the first time – well. He hadn't been invited, as such. He'd said something bitter about being considered useless by the hunters, and she'd told him if he could keep up with her and Wedge and Biggs, she'd make good use of whatever he had to offer. She'd given him his first proper walking stick and trained him like he was a new recruit. To his shame, she'd been right. He'd needed to relearn nearly everything.

They hit Imperial military bases one after another, because the MTs were mostly not around any more – either crazed and defected, or turned into daemons – and because the very few people who still lived found the bases their best protection, provided they could keep the lights on. Aranea's team traded fuel for weapons and brought everyone to Lestallum who wanted to go. A surprising number preferred to stay; Prompto came with them a couple of times, though Ignis could tell he was uncomfortable, to help set up hydroponic gardens.

Ignis asked Aranea once about the story Prompto had told, about fighting with her when he was Ardyn's prisoner, and she laughed at him.

"You think I'd rat to you? It's the kid's business." She slapped his shoulder. "You want me telling him stories about you?"

Ignis had fallen off a catwalk into a water talk just the week before; he had amassed a vast collection of the audio memo cards the human leaders of the Imperial military had left scattered everywhere. Since going blind his sleep cycle had stretched as if every day had thirty hours. His back was badly scarred because he'd been caught by surprise half a year back. No, he did not want Prompto to know about any of that.

"Right?" Aranea said, and changed the subject back to maps. Ignis couldn't read them, but he could still tell Aranea what intel Lucis had had on Imperial troop movements and weapons. In another time, he'd be committing treason, he supposed. That thought made him feel, unexpectedly, more sorrow than shame.

Aranea had an eye for spotting orphans, though – the children no one took care of, or who'd been left alone when others fled. She brought them back to Lestallum, to be watched by her friends, and when they reached critical mass she told Ignis she wasn't going to go on missions for a while.

"I've got my own private army to raise up," she told him. "Sorry."

After that, Ignis mostly went with other mercenaries, who trusted Aranea when she vouched for him. He was fine. He accomplished a lot of his own work, and kept a steady stream of guns and ammunition flowing to the Lucian hunters.

Still, he missed his friends, of course he did. 

The next time he made his way back to the city, he found himself automatically heading towards Gladio's apartment and not Aranea's. He felt something like a hunger for gossip about people he knew and the latest news on the political situation. Perhaps it was nostalgia.

Gladio was home but Iris was out hunting, which suited Ignis fine. Gladio ran him a bath and helped him shave and cut his hair afterward, and didn't seem to care when the conversation stalled. Ignis hadn't had many opportunities for simple conversation over the past... month? Maybe longer.

"What's today's date?" he asked, when Gladio ran out of things to say about his latest hunt. And then, "It's still 760, isn't it?"

Gladio made a disgusted-sounding noise, and snapped his shoulder with the towel he'd been using to brush the hair off Ignis' neck. "You been gone three months without any contact, Iggy. You missed your own fucking birthday."

"Oh." Ignis took a deep breath, and then let it out slowly. "I'm sorry."

" _Sorry_." Gladio snorted as he stepped back. "Hair's done. Let me get you some breakfast."

Ignis decided against expressing his surprise that it was morning, and instead followed Gladio into the kitchen. He was borrowing Gladio's clothes, and probably looked ridiculous; the trousers nearly covered his bare feet.

"Sit," Gladio ordered, and kicked a chair so Ignis could locate it by sound. "So you got that out of your system now? Gonna maybe stay for longer than a handful of days?"

Ignis settled at the kitchen table. He'd lost his dark glasses when his latest expedition had got in a fight near Shiva's frozen corpse, but the snow goggles someone'd salvaged from a corpse worked even better. They'd been forced to seek shelter in the Astral's hand, supplicants whose every word, thought, and gesture were prayers to get out alive. His head had ached ever since, perhaps from the cold; it was worse when his scars were unprotected or needle-stabs of light broke through the blindness. He rubbed his temples and wondered whether the Glacian spared him in particular for a purpose, and whether being guided back to the last city of light was Her will.

He realized he'd gone too long without speaking, and cleared his throat. "Perhaps."

"People here could use you and your skills," Gladio said. The room was filling with the smell of ham frying and the sizzle of eggs, and Ignis' mouth watered.

"The information I'm collecting isn't useless," he had to say, even though to his own ears he sounded like a petulant child.

A plate was set on the table and pushed in front of him. "Fork," Gladio said, setting it down with a clatter. And then another. "Knife." He pulled up his own chair, and Ignis heard him starting to work on his food. After a moment, he followed suit, not wanting to appear too eager.

The food was simple, but it was hot and flavorful. Ambrosial. In Niflheim food was scarce enough everyone licked their plates clean, but he was very conscious of Gladio's keen eyes on him.

Gladio took him over to Aranea's that morning, and she fed them lunch. Ignis was getting the impression that hospitality in Lestallum meant always having food to offer a guest. The rescued children were full of energy and questions, and he found it easier to tell them about his travels, even though he knew other adults were listening. 

Wedge cornered him later, when the kids were practicing aerial maneuvers with Gladio, pumping him for information about Imperial military research on daemons. He was eager to hear the audio files and read the transcriptions Ignis had been making, and talked about getting Ignis to swing by the war room of the Tactics and Strategy department of the local government – "You'd love it," he said.

Ignis wondered. He suspected Wedge was correct, but the thought of throwing himself passionately into the maws of a cause was terrifying. He had a cause. It wasn't his fault he was separated from it temporarily.

A few days after that, a motorcycle pulled up on the brick terrace that Gladio called his front yard, and Ignis barely had time to put down the blades he'd been sharpening and stand before Prompto was through the door like a whirlwind, grabbing him into a hug and giving him a half-twirl around the room while pounding his back.

"Ignis!" Prompto said, sounding thrilled to find Ignis here. 

Gladio's bootsteps were thunderous coming down the stairs. "Well, look who the cat dragged in." He clapped them both on the shoulders, making Prompto stagger into Ignis' side. "Road treat you okay?"

"Not much my baby can't outrun," Prompto said with a shrug. He stepped back, and Ignis heard him stretch, joints popping, so familiar that he could almost see the arch of his back and the twist to his neck. "Heard _you_ were having engine trouble, though."

Gladio grunted. "The same shit as always." He crossed the room, and Ignis heard him open a drawer and take out a set of keys. "Let me go get the truck while you guys catch up."

Ignis waited until he heard the door bang shut, and then sat back down to tidy up his kit and put his blades away. "He's still angry with me."

"Remember when Cid said the four of us were brothers? Gladio takes his role as the oldest really seriously." Ignis heard Prompto walk over to the galley kitchen and get a glass of water, and felt a guilty ache for having forgotten to offer hospitality. "He thinks you've hit your rebellious stage."

"Do you think that?" Ignis _had_ rebelled, when he was seventeen, and he was annoyed to think that Gladio hadn't even noticed at the time.

"Whatever." The glass was rinsed and set on the counter, and Prompto returned to drop down onto the sofa _right next to_ Ignis, as if personal space was an unknown concept. Which, to be fair, it usually was with Prompto; and Ignis, to his shame, was still remiss in educating him. "It means I can get away with growing a beard and riding a motorcycle, and he doesn't get on my case 'cause he's too worried no one's got your back." Prompto shrugged, loosely amused. Ignis wanted to know about his beard, but wouldn't – _would not_ – ask. "Hey, you should see the pictures I got."

He rummaged in his pocket and then his camera – close, and in front – dinged cheerfully. Prompto reached over to press stiff paper into Ignis' hand; on examination, an envelope. Years ago, he'd developed a system for showing his pictures by moving Ignis' fingers across a surface to demonstrate subjects and composition. It was undignified and made Ignis embarrassingly aware of his blindness, but the exercise was just the backdrop for the stories Prompto narrated, a wave of enthusiasm and delight in the world that made the unseen pictures (selfies with chocobos, Iris and Talcott, Cindy, a car he was fixing up) come to life.

All things considered, there were worse ways to spend an hour with a good friend. Prompto even managed to coax a laugh out of him, when Ignis hadn't even been sure he was still capable of smiling. All his innocent pleasure at the companionship fled, however, when Gladio came home, pausing just inside the door and then giving a disbelieving scoff at what he saw.

"Dinner's not ready yet?" he asked. Ignis imagined the accusation accompanied by crossed arms and a heavy glare.

Ignis apologized and stood; Prompto told Gladio to get the stick out of his ass as he got up as well, and his footsteps headed toward the bathroom.

"What the fuck was that?" Gladio asked when the bathroom door closed. "What are you doing? Still, Iggy. After all these years."

"If you care for me at all, don't tell him," Ignis said. "I couldn't bear that."

"Like this is bearable." Gladio made a scoffing noise. "Anyone can see how you look at him."

"But he doesn't." Ignis headed for the kitchen. "Never has it once crossed his mind that I might – " he gestured in lieu of supplying a damning word – "and it never will, if the Six are merciful. I accept that. As should you. Do you have pasta?"

He heard the upper cabinets being opened and rummaged through, and then a package was dropped on the countertop. Ignis located the basket with their vegetable rations for the week, and made a selection.

"There's nothing merciful about the Six," Gladio muttered, voice still gruff with anger. He set something else down on the counter. "Canned tomatoes. Expired but what isn't?"

Ignis busied his hands filling the pot with water, to keep from making the childish sign to ward off ill-wishes. Superstition was beneath him, but sometimes that was hard to remember now that belief formed the architecture of his days. Noctis would return; the darkness would lift; humanity would prevail; the daemons would be banished; and there would be peace, the gods silent and distant once more. His simple, tattered faith got him out of bed in the mornings and had kept him alive when he'd been tempted to give up. He wasn't proud of it, but neither would he relinquish it.

"Whatcha making?" Prompto asked, steps loose and easy on the worn floorboards, his previous irritation with Gladio gone. "Can I help?"

 _Yes_ , Ignis wanted to say. He could picture working side-by-side with Prompto the way they used to at camp, teaching him the recipe, listening to more stories. _Many hands make light work_ , as the old saying went. But instead he straightened his shoulders and carried the pot over to the stove, checking that it was centered on the burner before lighting the gas.

"I'm fine here," Ignis lied. "Why don't you go see what parts have fallen off Gladio's truck this time?"

Prompto chuckled and clapped a hand on Ignis' shoulder twice. "When are you going to stop hating on the wheels, dude?"

Ignis huffed. "Perhaps when the truck stops smelling like cheap dried fish. Or when it ceases to be _pink_." He didn't actually know that it was still pink; he hadn't asked, since coming back. He'd been a bit more concerned with the awful rattles and knocks under the hood.

"So mean!" Prompto turned, his voice curling up like a grin. "You're breaking the big guy's heart, there's tears in his eyes and – oof, put me down, brute squad."

Ignis gestured with his knife. "Let's take the rough-housing outside, shall we?"

He liked his kitchen quiet, he told himself. Calm and relaxing. And honestly, how could he be lonely when there was such a racket out in the yard, cursing, the revving of an engine, a small explosion and raucous laughter.

*

He ended up staying in Lestallum; to himself, at least, he admitted that he was exhausted and needed a rest – some days, he missed coffee more than his sight. He rented a room close to the government offices, because he couldn't stay on Gladio's sofa and under Gladio's roof without feeling scrutinized. He liked the challenges of his work and going on occasional hunts with Gladio and Iris. Aranea coerced him into cooking nutritious meals for her children several times a week, and he was surprised to discover that he still felt the pleasure of self-satisfaction when he came up with a new recipe. Part of him felt as though his personal happiness was a betrayal; as if nothing but numbness should exist without Noct there to share the experience. Which... intellectually, he knew that Noct had come to understand his destiny and the sacrifice that would be demanded of him. But Ignis couldn't control his feelings, as hard as he tried. The best he could manage was an uneasy equilibrium.

And then Noct returned, at the end of ten dark years. Noct's new resolve, calm and steadfast, had been formed through the power of the gods, but it was clearly woven of his friendships and loves. Ignis was proud to stand with him and to fight for him, flush with faith transmuted to purpose. Noctis led them to reclaim the world and said his farewells at the foot of the great staircase where their journey had begun so may years ago. The daemons Ardyn summoned to Insomnia boiled up from the ground, an unending tide, but all Ignis, Gladio, and Prompto had to do was stop them from entering the Citadel. Ignis didn't want to die before he knew Noct had saved the world, but he wasn't afraid of death, there on the battlefield where survival had never been an option from the start.

The fight ended in an explosion like a decade's worth of dammed-up sunlight breaking free. Even Ignis' limited vision was overwhelmed with fierce white light, and then the city _shook_. The roars of daemons were replaced by a shockwave of sound, and Ignis was thrown off his feet as the ground dropped out from under him.

Ignis felt nothing, all sight and sound fled, and had a bone-deep certain conviction that he'd died and passed with Noct into the void beyond. The thought filled him with equal parts terror and grief.

Then awareness that he _hurt_ surfaced. Pain, therefore he must be alive. The world was still shaking, the air clotted with dust, and he thought he could hear a roar, like Leviathan's rage-whipped waves.

Someone grabbed his arm and pulled him up into a stumbling run, jerking him impatiently forward into the unseen unknown. He had no sense of balance, no ability to tell up from down, and his stomach roiled as the world spun dizzyingly around him. After a moment, another set of hands grabbed him on the other side. From their heights he discerned Gladio and Prompto. The relief was... immense.

By the time they slowed, finally stumbling into a wide, empty space full of knee-high weeds – perhaps a park – he could hear, albeit muffled with an annoying ringing. Gladio and Prompto were shouting at each other, as if they shared his difficulty.

"Where," Ignis started, trying to interrupt, and then decided that wasn't important. "What happened?" He had to repeat himself, digging in his heels and pulling the others to a halt.

"The wall collapsed," Prompto hollered. "Light came out from the Citadel and – boom, boom, bam, down it came."

"Took half the city with it," Gladio added. He was still holding Ignis upright, and he felt the vibration of the words through Gladio's chest. "The Citadel looked like it might go, too."

Ignis shook his head and regretted the motion instantly. "It was engineered to withstand earthquakes. Everything from the vibration-resistant foundation to the... reinforced concrete." Why did he remember those details so clearly, when that life was over and that world was dead? Why did everything now seem so unreal? Ah. He raised his voice. "We need to go back for Noct." 

Gladio took a deep breath; Ignis bobbed like a buoy on the sea. "I'm gonna get the truck, now I know which roads are clear. I'll pick you guys up, then we'll hit the Citadel."

"Nuh-huh," Prompto said. Ignis pictured it accompanied by an empathetic headshake. "We stick together. Waiting and not knowing when or if you're coming back would kill me."

"Ignis hit his head pretty bad," Gladio said. This was news to Ignis, and he reached up to see if he was bleeding. Gladio intercepted his hand and tugged it down.

"I know. We'll stick together slowly."

As they walked, Ignis had the feeling he was repeating himself, asking the same questions only to be met by patient answers (Prompto) or exasperated replies (Gladio). He was missing something huge, and he couldn't piece together what it was until right after Prompto sucked in a shocked breath and then started describing what the city looked like without walls.

"The sky's gray now," Prompto added. "Brighter in the east, where the clouds are starting to turn pink and yellow. Probably you can't see this, but it's beautiful."

Noct should see this, Ignis thought, and then he realized – they were getting the truck to retrieve Noct's body, not Noct. They'd all assumed Noct was dead... or rather, accepted the inevitability of his death. The sun was rising on a world with a king, without his friend and brother. He stumbled to the side and was sick, emptying his stomach and still trying to bring up more while Gladio held him and Prompto pushed his hair out of his face. He'd been a child before Noct was given into his care, and now without him he was reduced to being treated like an infant. Only fitting, he supposed, resigned. He apologized for his weakness and they started moving again.

A block later, Prompto's hand on his arm tightened. "The sun's coming up," he said. "From here, without the wall, I can even see a bit of the ocean."

"Thank _fuck_ ," Gladio said. A moment later, he reached up and turned Ignis' head so he was – presumably – facing the dawn. None of its light reached his eye, but after a moment he felt the warmth of it on his face. For this, he thought, every sacrifice was worthwhile.

He tried to make himself believe that for the rest of the walk to the truck, and the trip to collect Noct and deliver his corpse to Hammerhead.

*

They stayed there together for the next few weeks. No one had the resources to build a royal tomb, but Cid pointed them to a hill overlooking a pretty decent fishing spot, facing east, with Insomnia rising across the water. They dug a simple grave there and buried Noct in the raiment of a king (despite his concussion, Ignis had insisted on doing the mending himself). Noct took with him his father's sword and tokens from his Crownsguard. He'd clasped the necklace around Ignis' neck with his own hands, all those years ago; it was only fitting that Ignis return the gift, with his prayers that it find Noct happy and safe in the next world.

He had nothing else to give.

He kept turning that thought over in his mind, like a smooth stone worried between the fingers. He owned the clothes on his back and a uniform he'd never be able to wear again. He had a pair of boots and a sturdy pack that held basic outdoor cooking gear and a mat for sleeping. He wasn't sure if, technically, he owned his weapons, but he had no intention of surrendering them while living.

He was a skilled worker; he was both intelligent and educated. He was adaptable. For the first time in his life he was free – of hopes, of ambition, of duties and responsibilities. He was tethered to his friends by deep bonds of friendship and painful, inappropriate love. He didn't know how to sever the latter without surrendering the former, and he was just... tired of it, plain and simple.

The world around him was realigning to the rhythms of day and night: flourishing and healing. Insomnia was a tomb, a relic of the past, and Noctis a myth in the making. The future lay outside the shattered walls, in Lestallum and the small towns that Lucians were trying to revive. Gladio talked about setting up his own household, maybe getting married and having kids. Prompto thrived here in Hammerhead, where he was busy from sunrise to dusk, a respected worker; not Cindy's lover but loved by her and Cid. Most customers assumed Prompto and Cindy were siblings, and neither bothered to correct the mistake.

Ignis had not made himself a family during the dark years. He enjoyed the company of Aranea and her home-grown army, but he'd intentionally kept them distant, with predictable results. He had nowhere to go, and that knowledge – turned over and over in his head – became a resolution. He didn't need to stay. He could, for the first time in his life, find his own place in the world.

The more he thought about it, the more attractive the idea became. He'd not been sure he was capable of looking forward to the future, but now he wondered. Where would he be in a year, in five, in another ten without Noct? Who was Ignis, stripped of his roles as Crownsguard and adviser to the prince and king? He had no idea.

He expected Gladio and Prompto would find his departure selfish, perhaps irredeemably so. The thought of causing them grief was nearly enough to make him stay, but... He was done. He _itched_ to claim his freedom, and inaction chafed. He didn't wish to explode, or break, or betray himself by reaching out for what wasn't his, what would never be his. He needed to be alone, and learn to live with his loneliness.

Ignis packed his few possessions quietly; he left his uniform behind, in favor of food and water. He waited for the others to fall asleep in the caravan they were sharing, and then headed out under cover of darkness, setting his farewell letter on the counter by the door, weighted down with his phone. He'd never be able to get far enough away on foot if he took the road, not when Gladio and Prompto both had vehicles, but he knew the lay of the land here. No one would find him unless he wanted to be found, and that suited him just fine. He wanted to travel, now that his time was his own. See the sights, as it were.

When the sun rose, he felt the heat of it radiate across his shoulders, and he supposed the sunrise must surely be beautiful. Still, he kept his back to it, and walked on into the darkness.

**Author's Note:**

> You can find me on Tumblr at [bythepricking](https://bythepricking.tumblr.com/).


End file.
